He was drawing out a hexagonal garden structure for an elderly English woman who’d made her home in Fabro, twenty minutes down the mountain. At the end of her half-wild garden of lemon trees and stone paths would stand this elegant structure in which to sit – shady in summer but with glazed panels for fitting in the cooler season. She called this a ‘summer house’ and said they’d always had one in the English garden of her childhood, practical in view of changeable British weather.

He deliberated as he drew lines and calculated measurements. Could he market British summer houses to other customers? Montelibertà was at an altitude of almost six hundred metres, just about high enough for snow. He was not a fan of cold and imagined making similar panels for his own gazebo, giving him somewhere to listen to music while gazing out over the valley, winter sun amplified by the glass.

If he was still at Il Rifugio come winter.

A shadow slipped over his mood and though part of his brain continued to be occupied with angles, sizes and supports, the remainder wrestled with the clash of his love for his family and the legal issues.

When lunchtime arrived, he ate in a patch of dappled shade, browsing the internet for diritto di passaggio. It was depressing to read about people who’d thought the law was on their side but found themselves to be small fry when up against sharks. Lucia and Durante might have the right to continue to access their property but could the Binotto Group still find a way of making it better for them to sell?

After some research he selected a lawyer in Orvieto and used the online facility to make an appointment. Then, having spent ten minutes gazing down at his family vineyard, family winery and family home nestled in the lush green valley, cancelled it.

He should talk to Papà and Emiliano again first.

At about three p.m., having called through an order for the materials he’d need for the summer house, he headed off in search of Lucia and Durante. The drone of bees kept him company as he brushed past bushes and trees. About to cross the Bella Vista drive, a flash of white caught his eye and looking past the olive grove he could just make out someone in the gazebo. He watched a hand put down a sheet of paper and pick up another, long hair tumbling over a shoulder. Zia.